Spinning Out Of Control
by EFAW
Summary: Murphy's Law; if it CAN go wrong, it WILL go wrong. Wes has one of those days and breaks down. Travis helps him through it. Oneshot.


**Summary: **Murphy's Law; if it CAN go wrong, it WILL go wrong. Wes has one of those days and breaks down. Travis helps him through it. Oneshot.

**Warnings: **No set time period, a few curse words, self-harm, violence to inanimate objects

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**Written for this prompt on common_meme on lj: "**Basically I think Wes is due to have a complete breakdown." (**The prompt was a bit longer than that, but that's basically the gist.)**

**OOOO**

**Spinning Out Of Control**

His toothpaste was empty when he woke up. That set the ball rolling for the rest of the day.

(Wes got a mini tube of toothpaste from the concierge, but it was generic off-brand stuff with the hotel's name stamped on the tube, and Wes felt like he had a layer of fuzz on his teeth all day.)

But it was fine. He could handle poor hygiene and off-brand toothpaste for one day. He'd just have to make sure and stop after work. This didn't have to set his entire day off.

The shirt he was going to wear was ripped.

Wes stared at the hole in the sleeve in disbelief. It was a tiny hole, probably no one would even notice, but _Wes_ would know and this was a shirt Alex gave him for his birthday a few years back-

Taking a long, slow breath, Wes put the shirt back in his closet and pulled out another. It was fine. Just bad luck.

As he was pulling his jacket out of the closet, he shut the door on his tie. After a momentary lapse of control where he punched the closet door (it didn't help) Wes freed his tie and pressed his forehead against the door, taking deep breaths. He seriously considered crawling back into bed and calling in sick. Three bad things before he even got out of his room? This day was going to be miserable.

Then he thought about what Travis would say if he didn't show up for work today, and he reminded himself that these things supposedly came in threes so he'd already technically used up his bad luck for the day, and he pulled himself together.

He was so flustered he walked out without his wallet or his badge. He had his gun, but that was no good without his badge, now was it? It took twenty minutes for the concierge to get there with a replacement key, and then it was another ten minutes of searching before Wes realized he'd left his wallet in the pocket of his jacket from yesterday.

By now he was running late.

He hadn't had time for breakfast, so he stopped off by the coffee shop and ordered a coffee and a wheat bagel. The bagel was fine (Wes didn't get it toasted, so what could go wrong with that?) but they mixed up his coffee. Instead of black with a touch of cream, he took a sip of something absurdly sweet covered in whip cream. After causing a scene (and Wes would admit maybe he got a little carried away) he took his replacement coffee and bagel and drove to work. Surely work would be better.

In the lobby, someone bumped into him as he was taking a sip, making him spill coffee down the front of his shirt and drop his bagel, uneaten, on the floor. Wes may have cursed a bit as he pulled the damp fabric from his skin.

By the time he changed into his spare clothes, climbed the stairs to his floor (the elevator was out, of course) and sat down, he was twenty minutes late and Travis was already there.

Wes _hated_ getting to work after Travis.

There were no cases (Wes breathed a sigh of relief -he could only imagine what could go wrong out in the field) so today was a paperwork day. Wes sank into it with relish, ignoring Travis's grumbles. He could _handle_ paperwork.

Or so he thought.

The copier was broken. When he came back from the third floor, someone had borrowed a blue pen and put it in the cup for the black pens. He couldn't find his ruler, someone (probably Travis) managed to get hamburger grease on his notes, he spilled an entire box of paperclips trying to get one, and he misspelled a victim's name on a report he already printed, meaning he had to go back and print another copy.

With every mishap, every moment of bad luck, Wes could feel things spinning out of his hands. His chest tightened when he saw the blue pen in among all the black ones; the paperclip moment ended with him breathing harshly and sweat beading up on the back of his neck and he really, really wished he could have stayed home today.

And then there was the stapler incident.

He'd just finished his latest report, and nothing had gone wrong. He'd typed it up, printed and signed it, and maybe things were starting to look up. Dropping his black pen in his black pen cup, he slid his report in the stapler and pressed down.

There was a cheery, empty 'click'.

"No…" No, he had had _enough_ with this day giving him crap, he was _not_ going to believe he was out of staples. He tried again, with the same result. "No, no, no…"

A frantic search through his drawers revealed that he had absolutely no more staples. The floor lurched uncomfortably under his feet, and Wes could feel the walls spinning around him. He slammed at the stapler again, voice getting shrill. "No, no, no, no!"

A hand closed over his, stopping the frantic movements. Wes looked up, trembling, and Travis held out his stapler and said, "Use mine."

Travis's face was very carefully blank, but there were little lines around his mouth and his eyes were worried. Wes wondered how he looked to his partner. Licking his lips, he stiffly took the stapler and sat down, not even realizing he'd stood during his outburst, and ignored the stares of his co-workers.

He set the finished, _stapled_ reports to the side, placed Travis's full stapler next to his computer, and handed his empty one to his partner. Travis solemnly took the office supply out of his wavering hands and didn't say a word.

Taking slow breaths, Wes dumped all the used, uneven pencils on his desk into the trashcan, ripped open a new box, and started sharpening them one by one.

"Wes?"

Wes flinched minutely at the careful, gentle tone in Travis's voice. He must look _really_ bad if Travis was talking to him like he was delivering bad news to a victim's family member.

"What?" he snapped, and maybe he was a little sharper than necessary, maybe he was trying to cut too deep, but it wasn't fair that Travis had a full stapler and he didn't.

"Are you okay?"

Wes jabbed another pencil into the sharpener. "Why wouldn't I be?"

There was a pause. "I don't know. You just seem a little…"

He waited while Travis searched for a word.

"…manic."

"I'm fine." He pushed the pencil too hard, sharpened it too much, made it shorter than the others and now it didn't match. Wes threw it in the trash.

All Travis said was, "Okay," but Wes could feel him watching. He finished his pencils and got back to work.

Lunch was a disaster. Travis very nicely offered to go get it, and Wes didn't protest because the way his luck was running right now he'd get in a crash. Travis was back by one, a bag of burritos in hand and two soft drinks in a tray.

The soft drink was cola, which Travis knew he wasn't fond of, and there were avocados on the burrito. Wes _hated _avocados. Wordlessly, all too aware of Travis's cautious gaze, Wes dropped his lunch in the break room trash and stalked back to his desk.

Wes kept hoping things would get better. Things did not get better. By two, his printer stopped working, so Wes had to start filling out his reports by hand, including the almost-complete document on his computer. By three, his stomach was quietly aching from lack of food (he'd missed breakfast _and_ lunch, and dinner last night was nothing to boast about) but when he went to the vending machine to get something, the damn thing ate his dollar. When he kicked the blasted device, instead of giving him his bag of low-fat, low-cal baked chips, it gave him a candy bar. He tossed it on Travis's desk as he escaped to the bathroom.

There was no one inside. Wes gripped the edge of the sink and took long slow breaths and tried to stand still on ground that felt like it was falling out from under him. It was just bad luck, just a very bad day, he _knew_ that, but everything was going wrong and he couldn't control any of it and _he needed to have control._

Trembling, he unclenched his fingers and washed his hands. When he glanced in the mirror, he managed to get a look on his face that was almost normal. Not perfect, but it would do. He took a breath and stepped into the hall.

A stupid suspect trying to make a break for it punched him in the face, slammed him into the wall and knocked the wind out of him, and kept going.

Wes slid to the ground gasping for breath and tried desperately not to cry.

The rest of the afternoon continued. More paperwork problems and lack of office supplies. Someone stole his hand sanitizer, and Wes may have responded more vehemently than necessary. After it was returned, he tossed the purloined sanitizer in the garbage and studiously ignored Travis's heavy gaze as he searched his desk for another bottle.

Thankfully, the day ended without a case. The _last_ thing he needed was to get shot, and that sure seemed like where his day was headed.

The thought of going home to his bleak hotel room and curling up on his bed _not doing anything_ almost made him cry in relief. The day was almost over. He could deal.

He walked into the parking lot and stared at the ding in the driver's door.

Tears pricked his eyes. He had to bite his lip to keep them from falling. Climbing behind the wheel without a word from his partner, Wes pulled away from the station and drove to the hotel.

Of course he hit every red light, but he could handle that. He _could._ He was almost there, everything was fine, it was almost over.

He made it to his room without incident. Stripping of his jacket and tie and shoes, Wes went straight to the bathroom. He'd brush his teeth, change into pajamas, and sleep the nightmare away.

His toothpaste was empty. He never got more on the way home.

Wes's knees wobbled, and he had to clutch the sink to keep from falling. He stared at the catalyst for this whole day and shook as something bubbled in his chest.

He laughed.

It was mad, hysterical laughter, and he picked up the empty toothpaste. When he looked in the mirror, he didn't recognize himself.

_Manic_, Travis had said.

_Insane_ was the word that came to Wes's mind.

Everything curdled in his chest, every incident, every bad luck moment of the day, every worried little glance Travis shot him, all the curious or indifferent stares from his coworkers swirled and stormed inside of him, bursting free from his carefully constructed walls and rampaging.

Throwing his head back and laughing and laughing, he pulled out his gun and slammed the butt into the mirror. The glass cracked. He hit it again, and again, and by the time the glass shattered the laughter had turned to sobs but he couldn't pinpoint when. He smashed the larger pieces out of the mirror with his gun and dug the smaller pieces out with his fingers until they glittered on the floor like stars.

Heedless of the effect of glass on his stockinged feet, he turned, yanking on the shower curtain until the rod collapsed with a clatter. Shampoo and soap went flying; towels were flung to the ground. The lid of the toilet tank smashed into the tub and cracked the cheap porcelain.

Wes stood in the wreckage, sobbing, chest heaving, staring at the mess _and it wasn't enough_. A pained, wordless shriek left his mouth, and he stumbled out of the bathroom.

The closet was right across from the bathroom. He yanked the door open and ripped clothes off the hangers, flinging them across the room. Blood dripped from his fingers and smeared on the lighter colored fabrics, but he couldn't be bothered to care. When there were no more shirts and suits, he chucked the hangers against the wall.

A backhand sent the lamp on the nightstand flying. He smashed at the alarm clock until it sparked and died. A pretty vase smashed into pieces on the wall above his pillow, sending water and flowers scattering on his pillow. The pillow quickly followed the hangers, and bloody fingers tore at the sheets and comforter until they ripped and were discarded on the floor.

Through it all he shouted, screaming at everything. The universe, fate, his life, Travis, _himself_. He screamed at all the happy people and all the content people and everyone who was having a better day than him because he _hated it, _he hated it all, he wished everything would just stop! He screamed until his voice was hoarse, and then he screamed some more, curses and obscenities and primal incoherent fury until it became a ceaseless drone in his head.

Dimly, he heard thumps, but he couldn't tell if it was someone banging on the door or the sounds of his destruction or the beat of his own heart in his ears. It didn't matter.

Carefully folded shirts joined the throng, spreading out and landing like colorful dying birds. He wrenched the dresser drawers out with a tug, whirling like a discus thrower and sending them where they would.

"Wes!"

He picked up a chair and smashed it against the wall, sobbing vitriol at blue skies and sunny days and _goddamn happy people_ because why should anyone get to be happy when his world was spinning out of control beneath him and he couldn't even handle one lousy day?

He reached for his laptop to give it the same treatment as the rest, and hands were there, holding him down, pulling him back, away from the walls and the desk and it was _Travis_, Travis with his happy little world of girls and guns and his easy ability to roll with whatever was tossed his way and that warm smile that charmed everyone he met and _it was Travis_ why was Travis here he was the _very last person_ Wes wanted to see him like this.

He thrashed, turning his venom on Travis _I hate you it's all your fault leave me alone go away go away go away _but even when his elbow connected with Travis's gut and his foot landed a solid hit on Travis's knee, Travis didn't let go. He just held on tighter.

Wes turned and raked his fingers across Travis's cheek and he still wouldn't let go, just hung on and kept talking, words Wes hadn't even heard until now.

"-okay, you're okay, we'll figure this out, everything's alright, I promise you'll be okay so just calm down Wes, you need to calm down-"

It should have been patronizing. Instead, like a balloon being popped, the adrenaline left him and he collapsed. Travis followed him to the floor, oh god _Travis_ was seeing him fall apart, please, anyone but Travis-

He huddled in on himself, spitting curses and pain and _please make it stop_ as his fingers clawed at his face, scratched gouges in his cheeks and neck and forehead, yanked at his hair, _anything_ if it would help the maelstrom in his chest and mind die down.

But the hands were there, gripping his wrists, gentle but firm and pulling his hands away so he couldn't hurt himself anymore.

"-need you to give me the gun, okay? I'm gonna take it nice and slow, Wes, so stay calm and don't fight me on this, alright? It's okay, nice and easy, here we go-"

Travis carefully unwrapped stiff cold fingers from the gun he hadn't put down since the first crack in the glass, the gun he hadn't realized the was still holding, the gun that had hovered dangerously close to his head more than once and Wes wasn't sure if the safety was even off but he could imagine how it looked and Travis wasn't letting go so Wes let him take it.

"-there we go, nice and easy, just like I said. Everything's okay now, I got you, it's okay-"

Travis pulled him close, and he fought it, pushing against Travis's chest to get away. But Travis wouldn't let go, just held on until Wes's will collapsed like the rest of him and he gave in. Bawling, he clung to his partner and buried his face in Travis's shirt and let the other man's endless stream of words wash over him in a soothing tide.

"-it's okay, Wes, I got you, it'll all be okay-"

Wes wasn't sure how long they sat there, just that every so often he'd get the crazy urge to shove Travis away and Travis wouldn't let go and Travis never let go and he never left. He was aware, vaguely, of someone -the hotel manager, maybe- coming in, but Travis waved him away without stopping his soothing stream of words, and they weren't bothered after that.

It didn't seem like it would ever end, but eventually the tears _did_ stop, and the mortification set in. Wes didn't know if he should hate Travis for being witness or be grateful Travis was there to stop him.

Maybe it was a little bit of both.

Travis's words slowed to a stop, and he seemed to sense that Wes wasn't about to fly off the handle again, because this time, when Wes pushed away, Travis let him go.

He was a little wobbly, but managed to sit up without falling over. He could feel the weight of Travis's gaze on him, but he refused to meet his partner's eyes. Not yet. Not now.

After a long minute, Travis broke the silence, speaking softly and gentle like to a skittish dog. Wes should have been insulted. He wasn't.

"Wes? What happened?"

"Why are you here?" Wes asked, rather than answer. His throat hurt. His head hurt. His hands and feet felt mildly filleted, his body ached all over, and he just felt…tired. Tired and numb and sick of himself.

If Travis was bothered by Wes's avoidance, he didn't let it show in his voice. "There was a ding in your car, but you didn't yell at me for it."

Wes's head shot up, and he barked a hoarse laugh. "That's it?"

"That's enough."

"That's _stupid_."

Travis shrugged, but his eyes never left Wes's face, and there were still those lines around his mouth but deeper now, and Wes looked down at his bloody hands again.

"I knew you were having a bad day, but you always manage to bitch about your car. When you didn't…I got worried, so I came over." Travis looked around the ruined room. "Seems like a good thing I did."

Wes slumped back, hoping there was something at his rear so he wouldn't fall over. The bed caught him, and he studied his lacerated fingers and didn't look at the mess he'd made. "Well, you stopped by. I'm fine. You can go now."

"No."

Wes wasn't surprised, just vaguely annoyed. He couldn't even muster enough ire to feel like himself. "Why?" he asked, and his voice was dull and emotionless. Drained of more than just adrenaline and tears, now.

"I'm your partner, Wes. You're obviously not okay. I'm not gonna just leave you. I got your back, man."

Tears pricked at his eyes again, not the desperate downpour from before but something more like relief and gratefulness. He blinked and refused to let them fall. He'd already humiliated himself in front of Travis enough, he wasn't going to start _crying_ now.

Silence fell between them, and Travis didn't get up. Wes wondered how long they'd be able to sit there before Travis gave up and left. Just like everyone else left, and then he would be all alone again.

Travis shifted. _Here it comes…_

"Wes? You're bleeding."

Red fingers clenched, and cuts and scratches twinged. "I know."

"No, I mean-" Travis reached into his line of sight, and despite himself Wes flinched. Travis hesitated, then kept going; his fingers were light when they touched the side of his head. "Did you fall?"

_Oh._ Shifting away from Travis's touch, Wes held out a shaking hand and slowly unfurled his fingers. In his palm lay a clump of blonde hair, crimson at the roots where he'd grabbed a fistful and just _yanked_.

Travis's breath hitched. Wes waited for the judgement, still staring at the bloody clumps of hair in his hand.

The other detective pulled back. Wes managed to be disappointed that Travis was fulfilling his expectations so spectacularly.

Then those hands were in front of him, plucking the bloody hair from his hands, wrapping around his arms and pulling him to his feet and pushing him to sit on the end of the bed. Wes stared as his partner bent to pick up Wes's discarded gun, sliding it into the back of his jeans.

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do. You are going to sit there. I'm going to pack up some stuff for you, and you're spending the night. And then we're both taking tomorrow off, and I'll come back with you when you come to sort this all out, and then we'll sit down and talk about this and we'll figure out how to make everything better."

Wes stared blankly like Travis had grown another head. "You don't have to do this."

Travis tilted his head. "I can call Alex or Dr. Ryan if you'd like."

"No!" Wes struggled to his feet; both legs throbbed at him. "_No!_" Alex had never seen him like this, he wouldn't subject it on her now that they weren't married anymore.

Insistent hands pushed him back to the bed. "I know. That's why you're staying with me. It's what partners are for."

He let go, and when he was sure Wes wasn't going to get up again, he went through the room, stepping around pieces of…well, everything.

"You think I should tell Dr. Ryan about this, don't you?"

Travis picked up a shirt and inspected it for blood or glass. "You know, I once had a foster sister named Monica. Everyone loved Monica. And then one day she locked herself in the bathroom and slit her wrists. No one even knew anything was wrong."

"I'm not going to kill myself, Travis."

"Not how it looked from where I stood, you waving your gun around like that." Travis shook bits of plaster off a pair of shoes and added it to the pile in his arms. "But I think I probably believe you about that, right now."

"Then why-"

"You can't bottle it all up forever, Wes. Next time you might not just wave your gun around. Next time you might _use_ it. I think Dr. Ryan can help. I mean, she's managed to help a hopeless case like ours, at least a little, right? She's got skills." Travis dumped the pile of clothes on the bed next to Wes and gave a cheeky grin that did nothing to disperse the worry on his face. "Besides, if you don't tell her, I will."

Wes stared uncomprehendingly, wondering where this had come from. Wondering why he'd never noticed it in his partner before. He opened his mouth to ask, but all that came out was the same question as before; "Why are you doing this?"

The smile on Travis's face was quiet and supportive and understanding, like he somehow knew the confusion Wes was feeling. "Because even if we fight all the time, we're partners, that's why. Now come on, let's get you to my place and clean you up. You might need to take a bath in antiseptic."

Travis kept his hand on Wes's arms all the way to the car and he didn't let go.

For the first time all day, Wes felt like things were falling back into place.

...

...

...

"Travis, we need to get toothpaste on the way."

**OOOO**

**Because I can't imagine Travis would act like a jerk when he KNOWS Wes is having a crappy day, and I have a pretty good feeling he'd be there if Wes was truly losing it.**

**I hope you enjoyed. Leave me a note and let me know what you think!**

**Until next time~**


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